


Legacy

by basaltgrrl



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 15:12:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2352911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basaltgrrl/pseuds/basaltgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For lifein1973's 2013 Ficathon.  Yes, this is quite a late posting.  A thousand thanks to talkingtothesky for beta reading!</p><p>This is for rebelxxwaltz's prompt, "Gene/Sam, Sam in a suit for basically any reason with some 1973/2006 fashion comparisons, any genre (comedy, angst, etc)."</p><p>I hope this works for you, rebel!  It ran away with me!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Legacy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rebelxxwaltz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelxxwaltz/gifts).



Sam's first indication that anything was amiss was at the pub. Gene was there--they all were there, the usual crowd, all the CID folk with their usual banter, playing darts and betting on cards, and it felt entirely normal and comfortable except for... Yes. Gene wasn't drinking like he usually did. In fact he stood brooding against the bar, the level of his pint hardly changed in the last half hour, and Nelson seemed to be giving him his space--or avoiding him, but Sam didn't suspect Nelson of that sort of cowardice. Gene wanted space, so of course Sam's duty was to invade it in any way possible.

He sidled up to him--no, stalked. Walked up to the bar like he owned it, placed his elbow close to Gene's but not quite touching, and clinked his beer against Gene's.

"Cheers."

This got him a noncommittal grunt.

"Nice weather we've been having, eh Guv?"

Gene shot him a jaundiced glare. "You've started watching the skies, Sammy-boy? Keeping an eye out for your alien friends, no doubt." 

It was a good try, but nothing like the scorn he could muster when really motivated. Sam eyed him carefully; Gene's lip shot out in a pout and he deliberately turned to the side, digging in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes. He fished one out, lit it, took the first, leisurely drag--but it looked angry, not relaxed, to Sam's observant eye--telltale muscular tension around the eyes and lips, the fag quivering in Gene's long fingers, and that first inhalation was followed by a massive sigh and the waft of a cloud of smoke.

"Spill it, Gene."

"Nothing to talk about, Samantha. Run and have a natter with the girls; I'm sure you've got nail colours to compare."

"What are you upset about?"

Gene slammed his palm down on the bar. "You, for starters!" He looked taken aback, as if he had surprised even himself with that outburst, then rolled his eyes and took another vengeful drag on his cigarette and hacked out a cough. "Man can't have a moment to himself, to think, to--" He appeared to be struggling to articulate a thought, then gave up on it and continued, "to drink a beer in peace in his favourite sodding pub, without the company of the man he has spent the rest of the day supervising..."

"You want some privacy, maybe you ought to go home," Sam snarled, nettled. "And why you'd expect to find privacy here," his gesture took in the throng of their other co-workers, "is completely beyond me."

Gene shot him a glare. "Just bloody leave me alone, Tyler."

"No." Sam crossed his arms.

"I'm going to spell this out for you, Deputy; I don't want to look at your face any more."

"Then turn the other way, Guv." Sam could be as stubborn as Gene-I'm the bloody sherriff-Hunt, he knew that for a fact. What he hadn't counted on was the extent to which Gene was perfectly willing to put his fist where Sam's mouth was.

"Fucking--ow!" he spluttered at the retreating slab of Gene's back, once he had his feet under him again, once the rest of the pub was buzzing with reaction, Annie's hand on his arm and her dark, accusing glare on their Guv as he pushed through the door without a backward glance and disappeared into the cloudy night.

"Why do you have to fight so much, Sam?" Annie asked, while Sam touched his numb lip gingerly and reached for his beer. "You couldn't see that he wanted to be left alone?"

Sam shook his head, not meeting her gaze. "I wasn't fighting," he grumbled. "I was just asking an innocent question."

She crossed her arms. 

"It's not my fault he's on a hair trigger!" 

"Yes, but--you're a detective, Sam. You know the signs."

He winced. The cut lip was beginning to sting; a quick swallow of beer didn't help. "The Guv's a public menace at the best of times. But this... there's something going on, Annie." Grabbing at straws, Tyler, he admonished himself. She was giving him that sideways look, the "you're crazy and I'm tempted to tell the world" sort of gaze. The truth was, he was just terribly curious about what might be eating Gene. They were so much in each other's pockets all the time that it didn't seem fair that Gene might be keeping something to himself. Out of character for him, too; Gene Hunt Did Not Keep Secrets. 

"Give him his space," Annie advised. "He'd like that from you." She didn't add, "for a change", but he could practically hear the words behind her concerned look. 

He quirked an eyebrow at her. She saw him an eyebrow and raised with a wry tilt of her head. He bit back a few words. There were conversations they didn't need to have any more; with the sort of mental telepathy he and DC Cartwright had established, entire worlds could be communicated in a few brief wiggles of the face. They'd had this one enough times that they didn't need to go through all the steps.

Still, Gene's behaviour was not something he'd overlook for long.

Gene was noisier the next day, which Sam took as a good sign until he realized that there were no brief moments of levity to alleviate the general air of intimidation and fear. Ray got his ear cuffed and Sam was quite happy about that until Gene threatened Chris with a boot up his jacksie and followed through, albeit with more of a shove than a kick. Chris cowered like a puppy and scurried for Lost and Found, desperate to find the files Gene was ranting about.

"Oi!" Sam scowled at him across the room, and Gene's pout became even more mulish.

"What?!"

"Did you really feel that was necessary?"

"'Course I bloody did! The twat can't find his arsehole with a map, and you want me to mollycoddle him while we wait for another robbery? Christ on a stick, Tyler!"

The enraged righteousness on Gene's face was like fire in Sam's veins, driving him from annoyance to rage in a heartbeat. "Oh yes, and brutalizing your subordinates is really the optimal way to find those files. I am in awe of your detecting prowess." He knew as soon as he spat the words that it was completely pointless. Knew it, and yet he couldn't stop himself. "Be sure I'll be studying your methods so that I know exactly what not to do!"

Gene's face grew more red.

"There's a trick to working with people, Guv. I thought you were better than this!"

And that did the trick. Gene stalked across the room, though perhaps there was something more of the mad charge about his passage, grabbed Sam by the much-abused lapels and threw him painfully against the corner of a filing cabinet. "CID doesn't need a mother hen! I don't want to see your face for twenty four hours, Tyler. Out on the streets. Now!"

He wasn't retreating with his tail between his legs. He told himself that again after snatching his jacket from the back of his chair and dodging a thrown tape recorder on his way out of CID. A blast of laughter stole a bit more of his dignity, but he salved his wounds with the awareness that he was right; Gene was acting strangely. Wasn't he? Although he could often be a brute, he didn't usually throw his weight around with his men quite so unforgivingly.

Sam spent an hour brooding about it but then got distracted by work. There were always places to go and things to do, and as it turned out he got a call on the radio mid-afternoon when there was a breakthrough on the case, and by the end of the day all was forgiven. Beers round the pub, congratulations and cheer, but Sam left early to make dinner and muse about the events of the day.

Sam had finished his solitary dinner and done most of the washing up by the time his door rattled in its hinges. Gene let himself in before Sam could answer the knocking, shedding his coat across the bed and setting an unopened bottle on the table with a decisive thunk.

"Care to help me with this?" he announced with his usual lack of formalities.

Gene's change of heart didn't surprise Sam--he appreciated the way Gene didn't hold a grudge, but the quality of the Whisky was an eye-opener. It almost seemed like... an apology? "Someone pay you a bonus, Guv?"

Gene rolled his eyes in return. "Shut it. You want to share some of this fine single malt, you keep your thoughts to yourself. All I want," and he reached past Sam's head to rummage in his cupboards, "is a quiet place to drink and smoke, and perhaps some quiet company, provided he can keep his nose out of my business."

Sam handed over their usual glasses. "You expect me to behave like someone else?"

"I just explained how it's going to go." Gene peeled the foil off the bottle with practiced ease and pulled the cork. "Mmmm." He wafted the bottle back and forth under his own nose a few times, then waved it in Sam's direction before pouring a generous measure into each glass. Talisker was not Gene's usual choice; Sam closed his eyes as he let the first sip swirl around his mouth, peaty and honey and a rich, mellow burn.

The wind rattled his windows. The radio gave off a burst of static and resumed its tinny orchestral recital. Gene settled into the armchair, set his Scotch down long enough to extract a cigarette and light it, and proceeded to send a few long, ropy streams of smoke across the room.

Sam pulled one of the kitchen chairs closer and made himself comfortable, the Scotch starting a warming fire in his stomach. "Was this a gift, then?" gesturing at the open bottle.

"Your point being?"

"Not your usual choice."

"I'm not all that particular, Sam." Something about his tone of voice made Sam look sharply at the nuances of his expression. Was that resignation, a certain fatalism, a world-weary acceptance of events too vast to comprehend? Or was Gene Hunt just the lucky man in charge of a bottle of ten year old Talisker, wherever and whenever he might have acquired it?

Sam wasn't fool enough to refuse the treat. He liked a fine single malt more than the cheap stuff, although Bell's or Teacher's was good enough for a typical night at the pub. And the honest truth was that he liked another human being in his shitehole of a flat, on a chilly, dank September evening; it intensified all the things that had pulled him back to 1973. This, every sensory impression, including the scowl on Gene's craggy face and the howl of wind outside his single-pane windows, was what made life vivid.

"The Himmelman case went well," he ventured after a suitably long pause.

Gene grunted in return.

"Chris did an excellent job with the legwork. Chased down those leads we got from C Division."

"Aye."

"And Annie did wonders getting Mr. Timson to talk. We'd never have found out about the puppies if not for her."

Gene nodded, pursed his lips, and took a hefty swig of Whisky.

"I was impressed by--"

"Enough, Tyler!" Gene slammed his glass down on the side table. "I didn't come here to talk shop!"

"What for, then?" Sam found himself crossing his arms defensively before Gene's frustrated glare--but at least he had the man's undivided attention. It was time to dig. "You came here for something, Gene. You've been acting oddly all week. Just tell me."

"Bloody hell, Tyler, you're worse than my old mother-in-law when she thought I had got her daughter up the duff."

"It's my flat. I can demand conversation."

"If I wanted a girly inquisition every night I'd have kept the wife around. And I can walk out the door."

Sam rolled his eyes to the ceiling, shook his head in disbelief, and gulped Whisky as the best alternative to snapping at him. "You chose to come here, Gene."

Gene pursed his lips, staring thoughtfully at the shadows under Sam's bed. "Yeah. Thing is, I've--got used to it. Y'know, having you around to bounce ideas off of."

Sam couldn't help but smile. "You mean, I fire up your mighty engine?"

Gene quirked his mouth. "Near enough. Well. I have--I need to... Sam, there's this..." Gene shook his head, stubbed out his fag in the ashtray and rubbed his face with both hands. "Christ. Why is this so hard?"

"Just say it, Gene. Whatever it is." Sam tried to put on an open, willing face, and with an effort prevented himself from laying a comforting hand on Gene's arm.

"All right. I need a favour. I have a place to be on Saturday. I want--that is, if you were willing, I'd like you as--backup."

"OK. Can you give me any more information?"

The scowl returned. "There's been a death. I have to be there."

Sam cocked an eyebrow.

"Fine. Yes, I'll give you all the sodding details, Nosy Nancy. It's the funeral of Mr. Richard Hunt. Eleven a.m., at St. Mary's Church in Stockport. Wear a suit." Gene's expression was so foreboding as to not invite any further questions, but Sam could not resist.

"Any relation?"

"Eh?"

"I can't help but notice the name, Gene." 

"Oh. Yeah. My old mum will be there, and--" Gene paused long enough to drink the rest of his Whisky and pour himself another. "She'll need me. It's my dad. Held on longer than anyone would have believed possible, the bastard."

"Oh." Sam sipped in silence, watching, catalogueing the tremors and the angry pursing of lips, the way Gene's hundred-yard stare seemed to bore through the wallpaper and out into the night. So many questions, but so hard to ask them. Despite every hard won confession Sam had had regarding Gene's personal life, it was remarkably difficult to venture any deeper into it--not for lack of interest on Sam's part, but because Gene had such a... could it be called a front? Walls. Barriers. Not a false mask, but a lot of stuff locked away. Such as the absence of the former Mrs. Hunt. The whereabouts of his old mum. The mysterious Stu and his current status, and most of all the never-before-mentioned father, and how Gene felt about his demise.

Even watching him, even knowing that Gene had made the choice to spend time in Sam's pathetic excuse for a flat, Sam wasn't sure where he stood or what his presence at the funeral might mean to Gene.

"Want to talk about him?"

"No."

"Want to talk about you?"

"Christ."

A longer pause, and Sam knocked back half of his own Whisky in the interim, watched Gene fumble and light another cigarette. He waited, partially out of a curiosity about how long Gene could scowl into the distance, but eventually cleared his throat. "I'm not going to just sit here in silence. In my own flat. Watching you drink and smoke."

"Bugger all, Sammy-boy, I didn't want him to die, but I didn't want him to live, either." Gene puffed out a huge cloud of smoke with a meditative sigh. "Funny how the hate burns out after a while and all you see is a scared old man. As long as he stayed away from my old mam I didn't care what he did to himself. And I knew it was going to kill him sooner or later. But Christ, who knew it would take so long?" He tossed back a sizeable slug of the Scotch with a baring of teeth. "I don't want to talk about him. But I'm going to have to do, at the funeral. I don't know if I can--that is, if I can stay calm. No doubt some of his decrepit old mates will be there, talking about how great things were back in their day, how tough they were, how pitiful the young folk are. All well and good. But when they start mocking me, and Stu..."

"You can't let them touch you. They're old; you've a career, a life."

Gene's gaze met Sam's, and he looked sad, uncharacteristically so, the green eyes shadowed and his face soft in grief. "It just brings it all back," he sighed. "I don't think much about Stu, these days. But..."

Sam nodded, looked at his own glass and finished off the dregs, watched the glow of Gene's fag light the sag of skin around his eyes. "You can still talk to me if you want."

Gene closed his eyes, pursed his lips. "I don't. But if I ever do..." He roused himself from the chair to grab the bottle, and with the return of movement some of the fire came back into his face. He poured them each an additional measure and clinked his glass against Sam's. "I know where to find you, Sammy, if I ever feel like spilling my guts."

Sam nodded. He knew when to let well enough alone, and another hour of drinking Whisky in comfortable silence was not an entirely unwelcome prospect. Besides, Gene's confessions had left him with plenty to mull over.

On a normal day Sam arrived at the office by 8:00 a.m., got his paperwork organized and spent half of the morning working up cases, making phone calls and talking to Annie--about work. Lunch often involved a visit to the Railway Arms, or sometimes a quick bite devoured in the confines of the Cortina. The afternoon usually consisted of driving around, talking to snouts, dealing with suspects, sometimes briefing the team or the Superintendent, and then more paperwork. Beer o' clock was usually around 5:00 p.m., but cases had been known to run late. 

Sam figured he'd get to work early the next day and find time to shop for a suit in the afternoon, but business kept him occupied and he finally had to duck out of lunch on Friday and borrow a car to drive to Manchester's best shopping district.

He started his search at Selfridge's, on the theory that any item of clothing could be found there. He knew how his own dad had dressed; flared trousers and broad lapels. He'd seen the range of choices on display in the confines of CID; the uncreased trousers and slim lapels that were a holdover from the war, the wide lapels that were all the rage with the new freedom and vague promises of prosperity, Vince's three-piece number and Gene's much-loved camelhair coat. Whatever he found, it wasn't going to be a balm to his twenty-first century tastes. But at least he could find a fine suit of good material that fit him well.

After he had glanced at a few racks, dismissing coarse weaves and old-fashioned tailoring, a distinguished sales clerk approached. He had a good look about him; impeccable clothing, trousers not modern but perfectly fitted, a crisp white shirt with modest lapels, and a buttoned waistcoat. 

"Can I help sir with anything?"

"Yeah. I need a suit; something appropriate for a funeral, but it would be nice if I could wear it again later."

"Not black then, but..." The clerk cocked his head in thought, then led Sam down an aisle to another rack. "You might find these to your liking." They were of a finer weave than the ones Sam had been looking at; the fabric felt like wool rather than slick synthetics.

Sam grinned. "You're a godsend, Mr....?"

"Phelps, sir. I pride myself in having a feel for what a customer really needs."

"Many thanks. This is perfect." He could hardly believe his luck; the suits were just the sort he had been imagining but hadn't dared hope to find. There was a dark grey one that seemed like just what he was looking for.

Saturday dawned grey and rainy, which made it not different from any other Saturday in September, aside from the prospect of watching Gene's father laid to rest. Sam rose early as usual and went for a three mile run through the wet, came back to his flat to shower and have breakfast, and then laid the new suit out on his bed.

It really did give him an inappropriate thrill of excitement, just looking at the thing. He'd have called it vintage, but it wasn't, not here and now. Many of the lads in CID actually dressed as their fathers would have, but he had no desire to follow in their footsteps. No, this was a classy piece, great material, wider lapels than he'd ever have chosen in 2006 and a distinct flare to the cuffs of the trousers, but elegant and understated nevertheless.

He felt a glow of appreciation as he pulled the trousers on, buttoned them up and shrugged into the shirt--cotton, after all the man-made fabrics of 1973. It felt luxurious against his skin. What a pleasure to wear something new and perfectly fitted. The jacket was the crowning glory, the way it nestled against him, the fabric cool and crisp. He spared a wry grin for the black leather number draped over his dining chair. Funny how much an article of clothing could become a part of you. It did seem like a bit of a betrayal, appreciating the fine suit coat so much, and yet it also felt exciting to be dressing up for an event--even an event as dour as a funeral, and he had to admit that he was curious about meeting Gene's mother.

A thudding at the door announced Gene's arrival, and a moment later he blew into the room, damp and grouchy and wreathed in smoke. He came to a halt in the middle of the room as if he wasn't quite sure what to do next, gave Sam a curt nod, then raised an eyebrow as he fished a flask out. "Cheers. Where'd you shop for that thing--I know you didn't have time to make it to the poncey shops of London!"

"Cheers to you. You'd be surprised at what can be found in Manchester. We're off, then?"

"Aye, no point in waiting." And yet Gene stood, flask in one hand, fag in the other, chin lifted but eyes distant, and it seemed as though inertia had glued his feet to the floor. He looked bigger in a black suit, though vastly uncomfortable, somehow stripped of his authority by the lack of his camel-hair armour. In it's place was black wool, somewhat musty, a little tight across the shoulders. No longer quite the Gene he knew, but a forbidding dark figure.

"Gene?"

"Gene closed his eyes, puffed a little, smoky breath out through his nostrils, and nodded. "Right. No sense waiting." 

"I'm sure we have time for a drink, if you need it."

"Had one. Here," he took another slug from the flask and offered it. Sam, who had already taken some medicinal Whisky in his coffee post-breakfast, shook his head, but then eyed Gene surreptitiously as he toed into his shoes and picked up his umbrella. The man was as lost as ever Sam had seen him.

They tramped out to the Cortina, and the drive out of Manchester and through the countryside was notable for a distinct lack of Gene's usual vim and vigor. They were going to his father's funeral, after all, but there was so obviously some confession to be had that it was all Sam could do to feign nonchalance and fidget with the radio knobs.

"How're you feeling?" Sam asked at last, breaking the monotonous silence and earning an exasperated sigh.

"Bloody Nora, I should have known you'd talk."

"Jesus, Gene, it's not like we're off to the pub. You've got to have some feelings about this."

Gene turned his head from the road to direct his glare directly in Sam's direction. Sam tried not to quail. "Look. I just--I want someone there, all right? I don't want to talk about it now. There'll be plenty of nattering at the funeral with my dad's old mates, and all the old biddies comparing stories and supporting my mam, chattering about what a shame it is, and why couldn't Stu still be--" He choked off, breathing sharply through his nose, and then whipped his head back forward as the Cortina took a sharp turn to the left.

Sam bounced off the door, with no greater fears for his life than usual, and once they settled into a steady pace again he cleared his throat. "You can talk to me about Stu if you want, Guv."

This time Gene's big fist lashed out and thumped Sam painfully in the shoulder. "Said I didn't want to, dammit!" He kept his eyes on the road this time, but his face contorted with what definitely seemed like pain--unless that was projection, given Sam's painfully throbbing deltoid. "Look, keep your gob shut for another fifteen minutes, and if you want to talk after the funeral we'll go out for a pint. That good enough for you, Marjorie? Can you stop with your bloody nattering for once?"

"Fine," Sam sighed, and did his best to appreciate the rain-wet countryside while massaging his shoulder surreptitiously.

St. Mary's Church was not much different from a thousand other small parish churches dotted about the countryside. Built of local stone, the graveyard fenced with the same material, and a small cadre of black-clad figures puffing smoke as they waited by the front door. They squealed into the parking lot and Gene maneouvered the Cortina into the farthest slot amid a collection of depressing post-war automobiles.

Sam followed in Gene's wake as he stumped up to the group by the door and greeted them with a grunt. 

"Well if it isn't little Eugene Hunt!" drawled a sour faced old man. He was shorter than Gene by half a head, lighter by several stone, but his bitter, sharp-boned face expressed nothing but scorn. "Decided to grace us with your presence, eh?"

"Leave well enough alone, Tom," cautioned another elderly man, but Tom was not to be dissuaded.

"I suppose we should be honored when the mighty Detective Inspector shows his face!"

Sam noticed that Gene had assumed his Stance of Intimidation, familiar from many an interrogation--chest thrown out, lower lip extended, fag quivering at an extended angle below his glowering glare. Here we go, then, he thought to himself, and assumed his customary position at Gene's shoulder, half a step behind him.

"And who's this?" the fellow continued, his squint shifting to Sam. "Your new missus? Dresses like one!"

Sam bristled, but Gene put a restraining hand on his arm. "Oi. Keep a civil tongue in your head. This is my DI, my fellow police officer." 

"Well now, Mr. Hunt," the friendlier old man blathered. "It is good to see you."

"Ta, Gerald," Gene nodded curtly. "Tom." His gaze lingered for a moment, but then drifted on to the next cluster of elderly men in black. "Mr. Hudson. Benjamin. Shame we have to meet in these circumstances."

"Some might agree," the balder one muttered, and took a long drag from his cigarette.

"Aye. Death of a good man. Shame."

They made desultory gestures of condolence, half-hearted pats on shoulders and nods as Gene, with Sam in his wake, moved through the crowd. 

But before he could mount the steps to the church Tom raised his walking stick to prod Gene's shoulder, leaving a muddy blot. "You don't care," he hissed. "You wanted your old dad to die. For years, you did. You said as much, ungrateful twat. Ever since your no-good wastrel of a brother blew his own head off, you turned your back on the man what fathered you." 

Sam was stunned into immobility both by the unlikely attack and this unexpected piece of Gene history, and watched in silence as Gene's fag fell from trembling fingers. He'd never seen Gene's face twist like this, not even when Woolf was shot, not even in the tunnel, looking back into Gene's outraged disbelief... This, this was the man Gene didn't want to have to face. This used-up old man was why Gene had wanted a friend at his shoulder. Having seen Gene take down far more threatening adversaries, Sam didn't know why that comment had wrung such pain from his DCI.

Gerald put a hand on Tom's shoulder. "He's here now, isn't he? What more do you want, Thomas?"

"I want this one to be a man for once," he snarled with desperate spite.

Gene faced him with chin raised, lip pouting. Sam knew the expression well; the front of bravado, hiding all. "Don't touch me again, Tom Hardy."

The old man sneered, his sour, bitter mouth splitting in a cackle. "That's rich. I'm too old to put you over my knee--or over my desk. But I'm not afraid of you, young Hunt."

"Unless you've broken any laws, you shouldn't be."

"Oh, the big man, eh? That's what you want people to think, eh?"

Gene's chin twitched upward.

"Come on, now, Tom. Let's get inside. The service will be starting soon." Gerald attempted again to intervene, but Tom furiously brushed off his hand and gave Gene another shove with the tip of his stick.

"You think a badge makes you a man? Daft bugger, you're not half the man he was!"

"Not half of him?" Gene's voice broke upwards on the last word, a strangled note of disbelief. "A man like my old dad? I haven't beaten enough women and children for you, Tom?"

"You have no idea--"

"I lived with him, you bloody fool. I saw the blows fall. You can't tell me--"

"You don't know how he grew up, how he struggled to feed you, and her--"

"I never saw him struggle in my life!"

"--before you were born, he worked on a farm, then in the mines, and it was twelve hour days, you can't know--"

"That's no bloody excuse!"

Closer and closer they came, panting in each other's faces like dogs waiting to smell fear, waiting for someone to break. A vein throbbed in Gene's neck, a furious color rising to his cheeks. Tom had the narrowed eyes and bitter mouth of a born fighter. He'd go to the last round. Sam watched, helpless in the face of their fury.

"And you never gave him a grandchild," Tom continued in a hiss. "Got something wrong with the plumbing? Lord knows your wife was a fine woman; you had a lot of good years with her before she left."

Gene's hand lashed out, grabbed Tom's tightly buttoned collar, pulling the cloth up tight around his wrinkled throat. "Don't you dare--"

"Stu didn't, you couldn't," he rasped onward, "Left your old da to die on his own, you did. What kind of son does that to his father? You're no kind of man, and nor was your brother. I heard tell of the life he was living, before he offed himself..."

"Don't you dare say a word against Stu," hissed Gene, eyes narrowed to slits of rage, and gave the smaller man a shake. "He suffered enough, poor bloke. Suffered enough from you, you violent, conniving vicious excuse for a bullying headmaster. God Almighty himself wouldn't have come through that unscathed."

"Weak," hissed old Tom, though his eyes were bulging in his red face, "he was weak, unmanly, girly-boy--"

And then hands were pulling at Gene's arms, as the older men around him broke free of their shock, black coats gathering around him like a flock of crows harassing a hawk.

"Gene," said Sam, softly.

Gene's eyes met his. His face was suffused with rage but his eyes were brimming with tears. And then as if by divine intervention the rain began to fall in earnest, and if any salty water ran down Gene's face it was lost in the wet and the hubbub of getting everyone inside, fags crushed underfoot and umbrellas folding, any additional vitriol muffled by the general hum of conversation.

"Gene," said Sam again, when they were among only a few left in the entry, peering through the doorway into a modestly crowded church--although the small size of the place seemed to amplify the whispering couples.

Gene shook his head once, firmly. "Later," he muttered. He seemed to have pulled himself together, though a moment later he procured a flask from inside his coat and took a long, steadying pull. His hand shook, though, as he lowered the flask, standing there with the cap still open, his eyes shadowed. Sam put a hand on his shoulder, and after a moment when Gene didn't push him off he pulled him into a brief, heartfelt hug, letting go almost at once as he felt the instinctive jerk of reaction.

"I'm here," Sam said quietly. "We'll get through this."

Gene chewed his lips, looking left, then right, the back at Sam with a quick nod of agreement. He capped the flask, slid out of his grey raincoat and strode up the aisle, Sam hurrying behind him. They went to the front of the church where Gene took a seat next to a gaunt older woman in a black dress. 

"My DI, Sam Tyler," he murmured to her, and Sam extended a hand which she took in a surprisingly strong grip. Her piercing green eyes were keen on his face, the most lively aspect of her otherwise wan visage.

"Mr. Tyler. Thank you for coming."

Sam nodded, taking a seat next to Gene as the minister approached the front of the church and the coughs and whispers died down. 

It went as most such services went. Sam felt his eyes glazing over within the first ten minutes, at the droning voice of the minister, the trite phrases, the attempts to put a good face on the life they were there to celebrate. Gene's hand twitched in the periphery of Sam's vision. Yearning for a fag, no doubt. Sam ran a hand up and down the fine woolen fabric of his own trousers, glanced at the dour skies through the stained glass windows. He managed an occasional glimpse of Mrs. Hunt on Gene's other side; she had Gene's nose, his determined chin, although her eyes were sunken and she seemed tiny next to his bulk. She reached over with her gloved hand and placed it on top of his; Gene's twitching ceased.

There was singing; a small boys' choir. Mrs. Hunt stared stolidly ahead, dry-eyed. Gene put his other hand on top of hers, gave it a squeeze. After the singing came what seemed like a closing statement about the permanence of the hereafter, the fleeting nature of life. And then the minister asked if anyone had any words to say.

Gene's mother got to her feet. She looked so small at the pulpit it was hard to believe Gene had come from her. Small but somehow indomitable, as she looked over the gathered congregation with a weary acceptance, and gave them a nod. "Richard lived longer than any of us expected him to, what with the lung fevers and the bad leg. I can't say those last years were good ones, but we stuck together and made a life of it. I did my duty by him. I only wish his two boys had survived him, as they ought."

"Blimey," someone snarled.

Gene got halfway to his feet, twisting around. "Oi! Keep it down, she's talking!"

"You know how I feel about your wastrel brother," Tom Hardy called out. "Now I see you sitting there with that poncey city fellow, and I'm glad your old dad isn't here to watch!"

"Shut it or I'll have you in the cells for disrupting a public event!"

"Oh, that's rich, that is! Throwing your weight around! You're not man enough to take me down, young Hunt! You don't have the tackle for it!"

Sam was alarmed to see Gene's face go instantly two shades darker. "You wanker. Here--I'm damned if I--" he sputtered, trying to shake Sam off, even as Mrs. Hunt moved toward them with a resigned acceptance on her face. Funerals ending in fistfights; it probably was not unheard of, but Sam still felt he might redirect the inevitable.

"Come on, Guv," he muttered, pushing Gene back with one hand on his chest. "Let's go. Beer o'clock, yeah? Bugger this."

"Yer dad would be glad Stu didn't live to see this day!"

Sam spared a glance to see some of the other older men trying to calm Hardy, and was pleased that it wasn't a unilateral disarmament--and then grunted in surprise as Gene's elbow hit him in the head. He managed to grab at the tails of Gene's coat as his superior officer made to leap over the pews, jerking him back down and grabbing him around the waist just long enough for a few other men to take him by the arms.

"Gene!" cried his mother. "Gene, please. Just let it go." She pushed her way up to him. "You don't need to do this. Let it go."

Gene shook his head. 

She compressed her lips, and Sam suddenly saw Gene's pout in her expression. "Old Hardy's a bloody fool, and he's been diagnosed with lung cancer. He'll be gone by next spring," she told him sharply. "Don't give him the satisfaction. Let your dad go with a whimper, rather than a bang; he'd hate that."

"I didn't appreciate the way he interrupted you."

"Nor did I. But it's over, he's--" she looked toward the entrance, nodded. "He's gone. And so should you be. Go have a pint, let it go. I'll see you next week."

"Alright. For you. But it's not over."

"It is," she poked him in the chest. "Go back to your job, DCI Hunt. You've got people to look after. Thank you for coming, DI Tyler." She reached out to shake Sam's hand. "It's nothing but a pleasure. Gene has told me good things about you."

"He has?" Sam stammered before he could stop himself. "Err, thank you."

"Lovely to see you together. Tell Gene to bring you by for my steak and ale pie sometime." And with that she turned to go, with an escort of older men.

Sam stood gaping until punched again in his already sore shoulder. "Let's go," grumbled Gene, and was out of the church before Sam could find his umbrella. 

The Cortina was already running by the time he leapt in, and then they were off. Fortunately it was a matter of only a few minutes of (terrifying, wheel squealing) driving before they were pulling in to the Grey Horse Pub. Gene ripped the key from the ignition and leapt out of the vehicle before Sam could open his door, and stamped up to the entrance where he paused long enough to shoot Sam an impatient glare. "Are you coming or not?"

"We're not going back to Manchester?"

"As you would so blithely say, 'duh'. I'd like some whisky sooner than later. Here we are, come in or stay out as you please."

Sam bit his tongue and hurried in Gene's wake fast enough to grab the swinging door before it closed.

Gene had already bellied up to the bar where he barked, "Whisky. A double."

"Pint for me," Sam added with an apologetic smile for the indifferent barkeep, and accepted his brimming glass with an appreciative nod. It was more than time for alcohol, and any discussion that was to follow would be easier for it. But it was up to Gene, really; the ball in his court and all that, if he even felt like talking at all.

Gene drank off half the whisky in a single gulp, bared his teeth and the world and drew a harsh breath. "Bloody hell, that was worse than I ever imagined. Why old Tom Hardy had to be there I do not know. No doubt one of his old cronies invited him--worse than a bunch of cackling hags, they are. I wanted to kill that man when I was a boy."

"Him and your dad?"

"Oh, yeah, but Stu and me, we figured that'd be too hard for our mum, both of us sent to gaol for murder. The things that restrain the youth. You do hear stories about stern headmasters, and Hardy was one of the bad 'uns... but they never get their just reward, do they?"

"I think things change. Gradually."

"Some things." Gene lit a fag and drew smoke deep into his lungs, eyelids fluttering. Sam stared in fascination. Sometimes it seemed uncanny, the degree to which this overweight smokestack of a man could exude a rude sexuality, even after an afternoon of watching him repress angry emotions. And where the bloody hell had that thought come from? No doubt it had to do with the degree to which the black suit changed Gene, made him into a stranger, and the way that Gene always took such an animalistic enjoyment in his vices.

"Some things don't," Sam murmured, not even sure what he meant.

Gene nodded, thoughtful, as he blew smoke out over the bar. "Stu was a fruit-picking sodomite," he said, in measured tones.

Sam blinked. "You never said that before." Although it seemed characteristic of Gene, to follow up a dose of vitriol with a naked confession.

"Hardly talked to you about him before, did I? But I think you bloody well deserve the truth, after braving that gauntlet today. That's why they hate him so much. That's why my dad drove him out of the house." He heaved a huge sigh, staring across the pub with half-lidded eyes.

"And Stu... killed himself?"

"Yeah."

"I'm so sorry, Gene."

Gene tossed back a gulp of whisky with a grimace. "Don't be. I'm not sorry Stu was... who he was. I'm sorry that wankers like Tom Hardy made his life a living hell. I'm sorry that lowlife scrotes gave him drugs that he wanted so he could numb the pain for a few worthless hours. I'm sorry I couldn't be stronger for him. But in the end he thought death was the better option; who am I to question his decision?"

Sam felt a chill not related at all to the steady rain outside the darkening windows. Death and life; he tried not to think about those topics, most days. Tried to be in the moment. But it was always there, however much he might try to live this life he had chosen. "You don't think it's a sin?"

"Taking his own life? His to take, the way I see it. We couldn't ask him to live for us, my old mum and I. You see," and he leaned closer, his elbow on the table next to Sam's, close enough for Sam to smell the mildew in the black suit jacket--and when had Gene worn that last? To Stu's funeral? "He wasn't the sort to pretend. And because he couldn't put on an act, his life was so much harder for him."

It was more empathy than Sam had ever expected to come from the mighty Gene Hunt, and it took him aback, left him slack-jawed and staring, more taken in than ever. "Um," he said at last, and took a hefty swallow from his pint.

"What's the matter, Sam?"

"I just. You seem so--understanding..."

Gene snorted, and suddenly his face looked far more like it usually did, disbelieving and sarcastic and snide. "He was my brother!"

"Yeah, but I didn't think you had any sympathy for fudge-packing sodomites, usually. Based on your, err, the way you always call me a jessie."

"You saying you're a fudge-packing sodomite? Never thought it given the way you mooned about after Cartwright."

"I--it's just not so--you always talk about it as if it's so black and white." Sam stammered, but then noticed Gene's smirk. 

"It is what it is, Sam. Stu was a man, and he liked men. Sometimes I wonder if that's why my old dad was so rough with my mam all those years. Trying to be something he wasn't, trying to do what was expected. Lord knows there are expectations." He sighed, looked down at his hands resting on the bar. Sam followed his gaze, noting as he always did the contrast between the size of Gene's hands and their surprising gracefulness, the long agile fingers, tobacco-stained. The mark, still visible, where his wedding ring used to reside. "I tried to do the right thing, but it didn't work out, did it? As Tom mentioned, there are no little Gene Hunts running around, raising havoc."

Sam raised an eyebrow and shrugged, then drank more beer in lieu of saying anything. What to say? But when he put the pint glass down again one of Gene's hands slid across the bar and touched his, just the merest touch of finger to wrist.

"Thank you," Gene said, softly.

"Well. I am your DI, it was my duty to back you up."

"I hoped it was more than duty brought you there."

Sam took in a sharp breath. "What do you mean?"

Gene swallowed, flicking a glance up to Sam's face. "Thought it was obvious," he said hoarsely. "By now. But. I never know what's going on in that noggin of yours. I thought you would have picked up on all the signs, after today."

"You--" Sam cleared his throat. "You mean--"

Gene ground his cigarette out in the ashtray, braced both hands on the bar for a moment while he heaved a sigh, and then bumped his knuckles against Sam's. "You fire up my mighty engine. You came with me today. And I find I like the sight of your poncey narrow arse."

"You surprise me all the time. I've always been under the impression that you despised my poncey arse."

"It's all talk." Gene fiddled with the ashtray. "You drove me mad, at first, with your contrary ways. But. I can't deny that you work well, that your scientific methods get results. You help me think clearly, Sam."

"Are you saying that I complete you?"

Gene barked out a laugh. "Near enough, Sammy-boy. Near enough."

Their eyes met, and Sam felt a strange shock of recognition, or of realization. Gene's craggy, pocked face was as familiar to him as his own, and it gave him a new thrill of delight to realize how happy he was to be sitting here next to this man, watching the slightest hint of a smile pull at the corner of his mouth. Sam crooked his little finger, capturing Gene's, and held it there for a moment before lifting his hand to down the rest of his pint. "I can safely say that your feelings are mutual."

"Right." Gene grinned, the sort of smile that so rarely graced his face; an expression of true joy, and then he looked down again, at their hands so close together. "We'll continue this conversation later then."

"Yes, I believe we will."

"That'll do." Gene sucked smoke deep into his lungs, released it with a sigh of deep contentment. "One more for my friend and me, here," he gestured to the barkeep.

Sam took the golden pint, took a breath of cigarette smoke and mildew and the hint of old fires wafting from Gene's glass, listened to the rain pelting the windows. Life and death. And life again.


End file.
